Yellowskins
by Ghurlag
Summary: A story following a developing beastherd from their lowly beginnings in Troll Country. Forgive slow edits as the story is going to be based from gaming.
1. Band of Brothers

**I – Band of Brothers**

Slowly. That was the way. If you rushed things, you made noise, attracted attention. A hunter could never afford to announce his presence to prey. That way hunger lay. A slight rustle. Ba'lan froze. What had it been? He cautiously checked his position. No. He hadn't brushed against anything. The long grass cloaked his form but he was carefully avoiding touching it. He pricked his ears, his bestial face contorting with concentration. If he hadn't been so close to his target he might have lifted his head and checked to see if his prey had caused the noise, but he couldn't risk it – not at this distance. Instead he listened, straining to pick out any other noise. There! A noise, just on the edge of his hearing. As faint and as distant as it was, it was sure to spook the deer if they heard it. Ba'lan suppressed the urge to growl with frustration. Ghurlag. It must be. The damned runt could never sit still, no matter what was at stake. It wasn't like he was being asked to circle the herd like Ba'lan – like he had to outmanoeuvre some of the most paranoid and skittish creatures on the plains. All the brute had to do was sit tight and stay quiet.

More rustling. Other noises, slight steps, half-bleats from worried calves. The herd was unnerved. Gods above! This was ridiculous. Ghurlag had already spoiled one hunt today, and that burrow-rat he had blundered after the day before shouldn't be forgotten either. Out on the plains, food was hard to come by, and Ghurlag wasn't making it any frekking easier.

Well, there was no delaying it now- the herd was spooked and on alert- there was no hope of Ba'lan getting any closer to them in these conditions. Best to just try his luck now, while they were still here. He bared his yellowed fangs and gripped his bone-blade. The now-familiar weapon had been crafted from the thigh-bone of a wild horse, honed to a sharp, rough edge. His legs bent, he twisted in the dirt, trying to locate a target. Perhaps a nice buck- something to make a trophy from. Or just food. Food would be good. Tension rising, he thought of his empty stomach and leapt.

Ba'lan cleared the long grass in a single bound. He had a split second to take in the herd and spot his prey before they reacted. He was fast, and focused with hunger. But the deer were born to flee, and they were faster than he. He came within inches of a startled doe, his bone-blade skimming over her back as she bounded away in alarm at his sudden arrival. The herd had come alive in an instant, tearing away from Ba'lan and skimming out into the grass. Ba'lan tore after them, but he had no hope now. It was up to the others.

'Hroooaagh!'

Ghurlag sprang from his hiding place with a huge roar, swinging his bone-blade in huge arcs. Very impressive, but totally futile – the agile deer bounded around him with ease, avoiding his clumsy attempts on their life like the gnats that plagued him at night did. Too quick, too hungry night, tonight. Or maybe not...

A moan of pain – a deer had fallen. Ba'lan roared his appreciation. At least one of the band could do something right, then. But Ribbald was always efficient, in his own way. He had stayed nice and quiet in the long grass, and waited until a panicked doe was right on top of him, before rising up and slashing a nice deep cut in her side. The creature flailed desperately on the ground, but Ribbald was already standing over her, his features emotionless. Ba'lan roared again in congratulation as Ribbald hacked into the doe's neck, severing its spine. He rushed over, Ghurlag falling in step behind.

Ribbald stood impassively over his kill, his blade already wiped clean on a handful of grass. The fragile body twitched violently a few times, still in its death spasms. Ba'lan gloried in the sight of such purity and dignity being bled away by his brother's actions. Talking of blood... Ba'lan threw aside his bone-blade and fell to the ground by the deer's side, beginning to lap up the ebbing lifeforce like a youth suckling from his mother's teat. The nourishing fluid tasted good – he could feel it flowing down his throat, restoring the strength he had lost these last few days.

Across from him Ghurlag knelt at the creature's neck-wound and began to do the same, slurping noisily. Silent as always, Ribbald bent over and made a cut in the creature's side so he too could share in the deep red fluid. Ba'lan felt slightly uneasy as he realised he had taken the first share of what was actually Ribbald's kill. There wasn't much room for etiquette in the wild north, but this would have been cause for a challenge in any other situation, with any other gor. Then again, Ribbald wasn't normal. He was a warped one- he had been that way since birth. His face seemed to lack some muscles – he didn't display emotions like a truegor would. He never snarled in anger, nor did he smile. There were only the slightest tells to read his emotions from- small movements, twitches, his body stance. If you had been around him for his whole life like Ba'lan had, you learnt to read him. Most, however, found him an enigma. Of course the most significant effect of Ribbald's mutations was that the gor was completely incapable of speech. It wasn't that he couldn't form words in the Beast Tongue – though many gors suffered from that intellectual restraint, it was not what ailed Ba'lan's brother. Ribbald could not make sounds of any type, beyond a pathetic kind of wheezing or huffing. When he was younger, Ba'lan remembered Ribbald had once made a gurgling wail after being struck on the chest. It was the loudest sound he remembered the gor ever having made.

But Ribbald was a strong gor, if a little passive at times, and that qualified him well enough for brotherhood. Mutation held no fear for the Children of Chaos, and none found Ribbald's dysfunction alarming or even unusual. Ba'lan decided to make sure that Ribbald got the choice cuts from the meat, by means of an apology.

The blood flow was starting to slow now that three hungry gors were draining the corpse. Ba'lan wiped his mouth and stood up. He could see no sign of the rest of the deer. He doubted they'd find them again. That brought his mind right back round to Ghurlag.

'You were making noise' Ba'lan growled at his brother. Ghurlag looked up, rebellion open in his expression.

'Whut?' he snapped, blood dripping from his facial hair. Ba'lan glowered at him.

'While I was moving into position, you were rustling around, you idiot!'

Ghurlag stood up so he was on Ba'lan's level. In fact, Ghurlag was slightly taller than Ba'lan.

'I arnt no idiot, don't blame me if YOU spooked the herd'

Ba'lan snarled wordlessly at this attitude, and lashed out, his claws tearing flesh as the blow dropped Ghurlag to the floor. He was angry enough at his stupid kin-gor without being provoked. And Ghurlag's rebellious attitude was rubbing at him. He was the eldest of the three, and definitely the smartest. Ghurlag needed to learn his place.

And it seemed like he had. The stricken gor stood up slowly and submissively, the blood from his wound mixing with that he had been drinking.

'Learn to stay still' admonished Ba'lan. Ghurlag made no response. It didn't matter. Ba'lan had re-established his dominance. Now to divide up Ribbald's kill.

***

Somehow the meat seemed heavier than it had looked on the carcass. It was a common illusion, probably brought about by the slender frame of the deer. Ba'lan shifted the dripping mass on his shoulder, feeling the slickness of more blood seeping down his muscled back and collecting near the base of his tail. He paused and looked around. To his side, Ghurlag was stomping through the undergrowth, the same sullen look plastered across his features that he had had since the dressing-down over Ribbald's kill. Ribbald was a few paces behind, carrying the largest load.

Always seemed to be the way. Ba'lan tried to balance out Ribbald's passive nature, but his self-interest always seemed to get the best of him. At least he tried though. He shot another glare at Ghurlag, who was swinging a leg around absently and stomping on some bug on the ground. Ribbald's other kin-gor would have no qualms about letting him do all the work. For a moment Ba'lan wondered how far Ghurlag would be able to push before Ribbald rebelled. That would be an interesting sight.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had bigger issues to wrestle with. The most pressing issue, for once, was settled. They had eaten their fill at daybreak as they tore apart the deer carcass, and there was enough left on their backs to keep the three brothers going for a few days – over a fortnight if they starved themselves. That would be long enough for them to find something else. Caribou herds were around somewhere – they had been following the trails for a while.

That was part of the second issue. The brothers had been drifting ever southward since they had been forced out of the herd, up in the mountains, for no other reason than the fact that food was easier to come by, the further south you went. That was one of the reasons the Children of Chaos pushed southwards so relentlessly. North, past the old herd in Norsca, in the Wastes, there were only a few sources of sustenance, and none so easily subdued as the meal Ba'lan had slung over his shoulders. He was not afraid of conflict by any means – he had fought bravely in the old herd's raids on Norse villages, but the harshness of an environment that forced you to hunt your own kind for food was something he cared not for, even if the brothers could have made their way past the Sea of Chaos into those daunting lands.

The other side of that coin, though, was that down here in the south, Ba'lan and his brothers were further from the grace of their gods. The deer herd they had stalked at dawn had shown no sign of the mutations that normally marked creatures within the realm of the Ruinous Powers. Ba'lan was as devout as any of his race, and the distance from his gods was discomforting, even knowing as he did that he could never truly be beyond their reach. Norsca was not part of the Wastes proper, but it was close enough for a true Child of Chaos to feel the dark winds guide him. Ba'lan missed that cruel comfort.

The south also held other, less spiritual dangers. Ba'lan remembered the tales told by some of the older gors in the old herd. On the other side of the Troll Country he and his brothers now roamed lay the human land of Kislev, where the country was patrolled by feirce horse-warriors. Ba'lan didn't know much about normal humans, but the old gors had spoke with something like respect in their voice when they mentioned the warriors of Kislev, and that was enough for him to be wary. So he had to find a balance. It was his responsibility, as the leader of this pitiful herd.

Suddenly he realised what was happening. He was letting himself get caught up in weak, fallable thought again. He snarled to himself gently and started walking angrily. He tried, Gods above, he tried! But he kept finding himself lost in his own mind. He was smarter than he should be, he knew. A hint of shaman, they had called it in the herd, and shunned him when he showed it in his speech. He had no magical ability- no link with the Gods, but he had a trace of cunning beyond a normal gor's capacity. It meant he could observe and understand what his fellows could not, but it also wore at his courage, he knew – he lacked the self-confidance true gors displayed in their every action. Ghurlag was the only one of the band of brothers who could be considered a normal gor – sometimes Ba'lan envied him that.

'East' he grunted to the others, as his temper cooled and he allowed himself to think once again. They looked at him quizzically. Their southward journey had thus far had a westward drift, pulling them out onto the plains.

'We have come too far from the mountains' he said, by way of an explanation. Instantly he regretted it. A leader did not explain in a beastman herd.

'I fear nothing' spat Ghurlag, 'Why should we run and hide in the shadows of the mountains we just left?'

Ba'lan growled and dropped his haunch of meat. It seemed Ghurlag was still not subdued from this morning. His hand strayed to where his bone-blade was strapped to his side by a leather belt, then away. He did not wish to kill his brother, however irritating the rebellious runt was.

Ghurlag dropped his load also, waiting where he was to see what Ba'lan would do. His oxen face was twisted in anger – it seemed that he was as irritated with Ba'lan as Ba'lan was with him. Ba'lan started to stride towards his kin-gor, noticing that Ribbald too had dropped his load, and was standing impassively by it. As far as he ever showed any emotion, he now seemed exsparated with the constant tension between his kin. The shaman-touched part of Ba'lan's brain agreed with that sentiment. The rest, however, was focused angrily on his other brother.

Lowering his head, Ba'lan began to charge, as if he meant to gore Ghurlag with his horns. Ghurlag did not flinch but dropped into the traditional wrestling pose, ready to attempt to stop the charge and tumble his brother. Ba'lan didn't know if his brother could pull that rather tricky move off, but he had no intention of finding out. At the last moment, he halted his charge, spinning on one hoof to lash out with his other. The surprised look on Ghurlag's face was nearly as satisfying as the solid thump of his cloven hoof driving into Ghurlag's chest, driving the gor to the ground.

But that wasn't enough this time. Ghurlag lept up with a roar, and tackled Ba'lan as he was recovering his balance. Ba'lan found himself slammed to the ground, Ghurlag's clawlike grasp pushing him down. He punched upwards, but the grip barely shifted. His brother was getting stronger, he realised. Four more punches to the gut, and Ba'lan was able to shift his weight enough to rise up off the ground, shoving his brother away with a roar. A flurry of blows rocked him. Ghurlag was getting faster as well. Anger pulsed through him, lending him strength. How dare his brother dispute his authority as eldest? His fist connected with Ghurlag's jaw. Hard. As he stumbled, Ba'lan shoulder-barged Ghurlag to the floor and leapt on him. Filled with fury, he began to pummel his brother's face bloody, the return blows bouncing off his chest growing weaker and weaker. He growled in pleasure as his fists began to draw blood. Suddenly a hand clasped Ba'lan's shoulder, restraining him. He snarled as he turned to face the new threat, then stopped as he saw it was Ribbald. He must have been a fearsome sight at that moment, snarling with rage as he sat astride his foe – but Ribbald couldn't have shown fear even if he felt it. The blank gaze of his brother's goatlike face spoke volumes to Ba'lan, and he turned to look at Ghurlag, his temper cooling as he realised his brother was unconscious, bloody wealts across his skull.

Trembling slightly as the anger left him, he got up and walked away a little. His heart felt uneasy – the tension between him and Ghurlag was getting worse – it had been since they had left the mountains – since they left the herd, in fact. That was probably the cause of it all. Out here, just the three of them, they were forced to interact much more than normal, and there was no-one to contend with but each other. In the herd, Ba'lan was aware that he and Ghurlag had got on much better. The three brothers had often had cause to band together to face off against other gors. Their position as the most junior beastmen in the herd (aside from the Ungors, of course) meant they were often pressured to defend each other. Perhaps all they needed was some company, some distraction. He turned around, much calmer. Ribbald was nudging Ghurlag with his hoof, and as Ba'lan watched, the silent gor reached down and pulled his kin-gor upright. Ghurlag looked a bit sluggish and dazed, but he was fine. He saw Ba'lan watching him and adopted a submissive posture – but not before a sullen look passed across his bruised features.

Ba'lan sighed quietly and decided it was best to pretend he hadn't seen it. He went and picked up his load, and the others did the same.

'East' he said, and they set out once more.

***

The deer-flesh crackled and seared over the fire. It wasn't strictly necessary to cook the meat, but Ba'lan had felt like a fire tonight. There was the risk that smoke might attract unwelcome attention from Kislevites or a northern warband, but the warmth would be worth the gamble. Ghurlag hadn't offered any complaint – he had even gathered the wood for the fire. Ba'lan suspected that he craved the warmth to soothe his bruises. He could sympathise. Since he had calmed down, his chest had started to feel decidedly sore where Ghurlag had battered it, and the heat of a fire might ease that pain.

Aside from warming his aches, he wanted the fire because he was planning on cooking the deer-meat before they wrapped it in leaves and tossed it in their pouches. Cooked meat seemed to keep better than raw meat. He knew that the Norse humans used smoke and salt to preserve their meat, but he had no salt and he didn't know how to smoke meat – at least he didn't know well enough to risk spoiling it. He had announced what they were doing before he had started cooking – hoping to avoid needless confrontation over him cooking more than they could eat. Ghurlag had merely snorted and gone back to squeezing blood from his wound. The Children of Chaos healed quickly, and Ba'lan knew that in a day or so his brother would be practically unmarked by their scuffle.

Ba'lan cast his eyes away from the fire and out into the night. Up above, stars twinkled brightly in a beautiful scar of light across the dark. It shone brightly here on the plains, but trailed away to the north. He wondered breifly if it meant anything. The Dark Gods often shifted the alignment of the stars when they had great plans afoot. Through the dark he could just about make out the outline of the mountains that they aimed for.

The reason he wished for the shelter of the mountains was simple. Out on the plains to the west they were exposed, and thinly numbered as they were, they would be easy pickings for Kislevite horse-riders or mounted marauders from the north and west. The mountains to the north were too close to the old herd's hunting grounds for them to head back that way, but the east was an unknown entity, where they might be able to carve out a living, as well as some small glory, perhaps. He didn't bother to tell the others his reasoning, though – it would only rack up more accusations of cowardice from Ghurlag.

He scuffed the dirt with his hoof. Perhaps he was a coward. Shouldn't a true gor race to find his foes? Should he even now be bashing on the walls of some Kislevite fort, daring the man-flesh to come out and face him?

'You're doing it again'

Ba'lan looked around. Ghurlag was watching him from where he sat on a jutting rock. For once his tone was not challenging.

'You're lost in your skull again' he said, accurately enough. 'Playing with your thoughts'

Ba'lan nodded, not sure where this was going. Ghurlag seemed amiable enough, for once, but that might all change. His brother stood and walked to stand next to Ba'lan. A heavy clawlike hand grasped Ba'lan's thick shoulder-muscles.

'You keep us on a good track, brother, and lead us to good food – I don't mean to question you more than you do yourself'

Ba'lan blinked in surprise. Had he knocked some sense into his brother when he pummelled him? This was more insightful and respectful than he remembered Ghurlag ever being before.

The hand on his shoulder guided him to face back at the fire. His brother pointed at the sizzling flesh. Ribbald was carving chunks of cooked meat from the joint and laying them on the

'We feast' he said, the Beast-Tongue word sounding unnaturally peaceful in Ghurlag's mouth. Ba'lan was a little off-balance by this odd behaviour, but the prospect of conciliation was temptation enough. And he was hungry, after all.

'We feast' he replied.


	2. Old Swords, New Rulers

**II – Old Swords, New Rulers**

Ba'lan awoke with the first rays of dawn. A dreary mist had cloaked the campsite, and his long hair was matted with moisture. Pulling himself to his feet he saw that Ribbald was already up, alertly observing the horizon. He acknowledged Ba'lan with a nod of his head. Ba'lan was in a good humour despite the miserable weather. He was well-fed and there was enough cooked meat in the brothers' leather pouches to last them the rest of the trek to the mountains, if they ate sparingly. More than that, though, he felt that last night he and Ghurlag had healed a lot of the bad blood between them. For a while last night, feasting and joking, and play-wrestling by the fire, they had been brothers again.

Ghurlag awoke a few minutes later, and began his normal morning exercises. As he watched his kin-gor, understanding dawned on Ba'lan. This morning routine was more than just something to loosen the cold muscles like the stretches Ba'lan did. It was a training exercise that tested Ghurlag's muscles. This was why he had been getting stronger. He nodded at Ghurlag as he and Ribbald prepared to break camp. The gor just kept going.

The morning was a time of silence. Ba'lan led the way as they strode through the long, damp grass, probing his teeth with his tongue to try and dislodge some scrap of meat trapped there from last night. He felt slightly bloated from all the good eating yesterday, hence the relatively slow pace they were travelling at. They couldn't have covered more than three miles in the last hour or so.

There was a clinking sound and he swore. His bone-blade had slipped from his belt again. It was all this damned moisture in the air – it left everything slick.

As he bent to retrieve his improvised weapon, something about the ground in front of him drew his attention. He hissed and dropped to the ground, barking an order for the others to do the same. Crouched, they rushed to his position, glancing around for the danger. Ghurlag frowned at him.

'What is it?' he demanded, his hand close to his weapon. Ba'lan pointed, and his brother bent close to look.

'Hoof prints' he stated. Ba'lan nodded.

'Shoed horses' he expanded. A new caution entered Ghurlag's eyes as they exchanged looks. They both knew that shoed horses meant human riders, and in this harsh land, mounted men meant warriors.

'Might be old' Ghurlag offered.

'Might not' responded Ba'lan. He signalled the search. The fire last night seemed like an extraordinarily bad idea now.

The three brothers swiftly spread out into the grass, moving quietly and readying their blades. This was no different to a deer hunt in practise, except this time they might be facing 'prey' that fought back.

It took mere seconds for them to discover something. Ribbald waved them to his position with some urgency. When Ba'lan got there he knew why. A human corpse lay on its back in the dirt. The warrior's jaw had been caved in by an axe-stroke. Ba'lan knew enough about corpses to recognise that the man had been dead for at least a week. He relaxed slightly. This was an old battle-site after all. He peered closely at the body. This was a human alright, but the manling didn't bear the mark of the Ruinous Powers like the humans he had encountered in Norsca. The weathered complexion and leather armour convinced the beastman that he was looking at one of the horse-warriors of Kislev. He glanced around and saw that Ghurlag was not with his brothers, but stood a little way off, staring at the ground.

'What've you found?' he called, reckoning it was safe enough to raise voices. Ghurlag bent and raised something in a response. It was an axe. Looked like the Kislevite's killer hadn't made it far. Ba'lan wandered over, curious as to the nature of the combatant. At first glance, he could hardly tell – the corpse was battered, bloody and mutilated. As he drew closer he recognised the markings of a Norscan warrior on some of the intact flesh. That made sense – Kislevites and Norscans may both be human, but the horse-riders hated all the servants of Chaos with a passion, regardless of race.

The body looked to have been trampled by horses. No doubt the fallen Kislevite's fellows had exacted their revenge. Wordlessly, Ghurlag handed Ba'lan the axe. It was a good weapon, with a cruel steel head and a stout oak shaft. Ba'lan swung it experimentally and signalled for Ghurlag and Ribbald to keep searching. A steel weapon was the most valuable commodity in the wilds.

Within a few minutes, the axe was almost irrelevant. The mist had cleared, and the grass was low, so Ba'lan got a good view of the tableux the gors had uncovered. It was a massacre. Half a dozen Kislevite warriors lay by their fallen horses, rotting entrails wrapped around curved blades. Norscan warriors were scattered everywhere, their thoats torn open, their chests peppered with arrows and limbs crushed by hooves. Ba'lan could see nearly a score of the crazed warriors lying dead around a twisted fallen tree in the centre of the scene. ...Wait. A second glance confirmed his suspicion. That was no tree. It was the scarred, mutilated husk of a huge troll. He could see the creature's club lying on the ground in front of the outstretched arm he had imagined to be a tree limb.

Once he was sure the creature was truly dead, he stepped closer to take in the full glory of the creature's death. Had it marched with the Norscan warriors, and fallen to the feirce Kislevites? There were arrows lodged in its breast, for sure, but trolls tended to die harder than that. Plus, it looked to have slain more of the Norscan warriors than the Kislevites. It seemed more likely that the creature had been drawn to the battle while it was still in full swing, and had charged in, to devestating effect, no doubt. Had it been a Norscan axe or a Kislevite sabre that finally ended the thing's life? The corpses around it suggested the former.

Ba'lan bent to pick up a crude Norscan scimitar. He weighed it in his hand thoughtfully, inspecting the ichor that stained the edge. Yes, the Norscans had definitely fought the troll. The servants of the Dark Gods were anything but united in purpose. He wandered further into the killing ground. From this distance he could see that the troll was covered in gashes from the battle. Many of the wounds seemed to be almost healed, which on any other creature would have been an indication of battle long passed, but Ba'lan was well aware of the regenerative capabilities of trolls. The old gors had fought against and alongside such beasts, and they had indicated a strong persuasion for the latter. A troll could knit all but the most devestating wounds back together. It was what made them so fearsome, and it was also why Ba'lan was keeping such a close eye on the body. He didn't think he had much to worry about, though. He could see a massive chasm torn in the creature's back, the edges of which were blackened and burnt, as if someone had set a torch to the creature, or plunged a flaming weapon into it. Regeneration only got you so far.

Noise. A movement, to his side. Reflexively, he brought up the scimitar. He was just in time to parry a wild overhand strike. A Norse warrior had risen, apparently from the dead, to strike at him. A man would have gibbered at the sight of a body returning to life, but Ba'lan was a beastman, not a man, and he had seen the undead enough to know they could be killed again. With a snarl he shoved the muscled human away. The man stumbled badly but regained his balance. Mud covered most of the man's ferocious features. Ba'lan noticed that the warrior's leg was twisted and gangrenous. Blood was caked over a nasty headwound. Obviously this was some survivor from the battle, not a re-animated corpse.

'Drop your weapon' he snarled. The man appeared to ignore him, circling Ba'lan as much as his lame leg would allow. Perhaps he simply didn't understand. Even humans that served the Dark Powers found Beast Tongue hard to comprehend. No choice but to kill him then.

To his side, Ba'lan could see Ribbald stalking closer through the grass. Good. And Ghurlag?

'Raaaaaaaaaagghhhh!'

The human warrior span just in time to get pinioned through the chest by a Kislevite sabre weilded by the last gor. Howling, he attempted somewhat heroically to strike back, but Ghurlag had pushed close as he rammed the blade in deeper, and he reached out with ease to seize the man's arm, the blade it held dangling uselessly. The warrior might have been strong once, but his wounds and the poor conditions he had been living in had rendered him weak, and anyway, Ghurlag had the strength of a gor on his side. Coughing dryly, the warrior fell to his knees before his death. Snarling contemptuously, Ghurlag shoved him backwards and drew his blade from the man's ribcage.

Ba'lan made no protest. Really, Ghurlag should have allowed Ba'lan to kill the man – or at least waited for him to order an attack. But this was one act of insubordination that Ba'lan was willing to overlook. Slowly he lowered the scimitar and wandered over to watch the man die. Ribbald came to join them, and clapped Ghurlag on the back in a gesture of congratulation. Ghurlag grinned and lifted the Kislevite weapon, allowing blood to drip from it to his tongue. Ba'lan smiled at him.

'Seems you've killed our next meal' he said. Ghurlag grinned back, devilish eyes flashing.

***

The old battlefield proved to have more bounty for them than just a few pounds of fresh manflesh. All-told, they recovered seven sabres, sixteen axes, twelve scimitars and twenty steel daggers, as well as three horn-bows which unfortunately were near-useless to them. Ba'lan was confident he could grow proficient with the bow if he practised, but it was more a matter of pride. No gor would give up the rush, the glory of personal combat for ranged strikes, no matter the tactical advantage. To prevent himself from being tempted, he snapped the weapons. Accusations of cowardice needed to be avoided if at all possible, and if his brothers caught him even experimenting with the bows, then that is what would happen. And he knew himself well enough to know that curiosity would win if he had the option available to him.

'Good haul' said Ghurlag, dropping the man-carcass down next to the pile of weapons and small treasures they had collected. Ba'lan nodded. There were enough weapons here to outfit a small warband. He mentioned as much to Ghurlag, absently. Leaning over, he selected one of the steel handaxes, to compliment the scimitar he still held from earlier. If it had already saved his life, he reckoned, it was worth holding on to.

Looking up, he saw that Ghurlag was fixed in place, staring at the hoard of weaponry like it had just struck him a fatal blow. He was fingering two sabres. Suddenly he looked down at them, and further down to his clawlike hands. He shoved both weapons into the ground point-first and turned to regard Ba'lan with an odd look in his eye.

Ba'lan raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he had knocked something loose when he had beat his brother yesterday. Ghurlag's behaviour was getting more erratic.

'We could' he said intensely. Ba'lan felt he was missing something.

'We could what?' he asked.

'Arm a warband' his kin-gor replied.

Ba'lan made some pretense of scanning the horizon, mockingly peering out through the receding mist.

'I'm afraid I can't see one right now' he said, sorrowfully.

Ghurlag was in no danger of being shaman-touched but he was intelligent enough to get that that crude joke was at his expense. But for once he didn't rise. Instead he just looked out into the mist, as if he really expected a servile warherd to turn up and throw themselves at his feet. Ba'lan was starting to get really unnerved by Ghurlag's behaviour. At least when he was being rebellious he was predictable. Ribbald came into sight, carrying some armour from the corpses around the troll. Ghurlag turned at the noise of clinking chain, and then turned again to look at Ba'lan.

'We stay here tonight?' he said, with an inflection that made it clear this was a question, not an attempt at an order. Ba'lan couldn't see a reason not to. They had to decide what was to be done about the hoard from the battlefield, and if they dragged the man-flesh over ground too far it was sure to spoil.

'Aye, I suppose' he replied, knowing he should be being more assertive but feeling too off-balance. Was this some new trickery designed to give Ghurlag an edge? It seemed too cunning a plot for his brother, but you never knew. Whatever was going on, he didn't like it.

***

Ba'lan pulled himself from the hard ground and yawned, his face contorting and twisting. The morning was bright and brisk. Ba'lan could feel his muscles were tight from the cold, so he began to stretch and loosen them. He was surprised to observe that Ghurlag was up first for once. Ribbald was only just awakening, shifting from where he lay by a small, wind-battered shrub. Ba'lan saw him flexing both his goatlike legs in turn before rising.

Ghurlag's absence was conspicuous. He had been in an odd mood all night last night, barely partaking of the feast. He had kept tossing one of the sabres from hand to hand, and staring out over the plains towards the mountains. Ba'lan would have considered the possibility that the scuffle with the Norscan had spooked his brother somehow if it wasn't such a hideously insulting thing to think. For all he may curse him so, Ghurlag was no runt or firstblood, he had killed stronger opponents in more dreadfully disturbing places many a time before now. The idea of him getting edgy over a quick kill like that was laughable. Still, it would be a good idea to check on him.

It took Ba'lan a while to find his brother. The gor had left the camp northward, which was odd. What was odder was where he was to be found. Ba'lan came across him stood out away from the long grass, facing north with his eyes closed and his arms outstretched as I to receive some great git rom the sky.

'Early to be praying' he commented carefully. It wasn't that the brothers never worshipped their gods, it was just that they usually saved rituals of devotion for feasts or other occasions. Ba'lan had never seen his brother making devotions alone, either. He was highly aware that his brother's thick leather belt had the two Kislevite sabres stuck through it. All he carried was a crude iron knife, stripped from a Norscan warrior. If Ghurlag had really lost all sense...

'I had cause' said Ghurlag, dropping his arms and turning to face Ba'lan.

'Ah?' Ba'lan said, non-commitantly.

Ghurlag alarmed him by suddenly reaching round to the sabres in his belt, but Ba'lan relaxed as his brother plunged the weapons into the dirt at his feet.

Ghurlag was regarding him heavily.

'I apologise for my talk-back along our path' he said, seeming to ignore Ba'lan's implied question. 'I should respect you, as my leader'

He seemed sincere, but Ba'lan was still thrown by it all.

'Are you well, brother?' he asked. Ghurlag waved a hand dismissively

'Fine, my kin-gor, I am fine' he span on the spot dramatically, his hooves twisting dust into the air.

'I am going to become a Beastlord'

That sealed it. Ghurlag must have lost his reason. A mute, a coward and a mad-beast. What company they must make. No wonder the herd had shunned them. Still, it was best to humour the gor until Ribbald got here and they could disarm him safely.

'And how do you plan to do that?' he enquired, wondering idly if Ghurlag would be crazy enough to try and kill him if he got too close.

The question seemed to have genuine connection for Ghurlag.

'I will need your help in planning, brother – I know no gor that mind-wrestles so well as you -but I know that these weapons, as you said, will outfit our first warband, and from there we will come to greater glory'

Ba'lan stared blankly at his brother. The tone was normal enough, but the words bordered on the fantasy of one who chewed the weirdroot.

'But there is no warband' he pointed out.

Ghurlag waved to the mountains in the distance.

'We will find them there, brother' he said. 'The lost and alone, like us – we will take them and forge them into a fearsome warherd of our own, grow strong on the blood of our foes, and wreak destruction on the manlings of the south and the greenskins of the east, and the tunnel-digging dwarves beneath the mountains'

Ba'lan was starting to realise that the gor was not truly insane. He wouldn't say that this dreaming of glory was particularly normal, but it wasn't so different from common beastial ambition that he could call it insanity.

Ghurlag stood straight and bashed a fist against his horns in a salute.

'You, brother, and Ribbald, shall be my lieutenants - Ribbald will blow the horns of battle, and you shall be my wisest counsellor – we will be unstoppable in battle, and guided to victory by the Gods'

Ba'lan could see where a taint of the old, usurptive Ghurlag still lingered on. Ba'lan was the leader, yet Ghurlag wished to make him his subordinate in this scheme. He made to speak, but Ghurlag seemed ready for him.

'You are wise, brother, but you are not a battle-leader'

Ghurlag was having another insightful moment, it seemed. Ba'lan knew Ghurlag had a point, but he couldn't allow the insult to stand. He stepped forward, his fur bristling.

Ghurlag nodded sagely, as if he understood Ba'lan's outrage.

'I cannot speak so yet, brother, I know' He dropped into a challenging stance and raised his head in a bellow.

'I, Ghurlag of no herd, challenge Gor Ba'lan for righteous position of leadership'

Ba'lan blinked. He hadn't expected a formal challenge. Ghurlag was doing this properly, for once, confronting him as one should confront a herd-leader.

'I, Ba'lan of no herd, accept this challenge' he bellowed back, pausing to cast his dagger aside. These challenges were beast-on-beast. No weapons were allowed except horns and hooves.

They eyed each other warily, circling counter-turnwise until both stood in the other's position, as was the norm in a formal challenge in Norsca. It was while this maneouvre was being completed that Ba'lan noticed Ribbald was watching them from the sidelines. How long had the silent gor been there, he wondered? Did he know what Ghurlag intended?

The roar drew Ba'lan's attention back to his brother in time for him to avoid Ghurlag's first charge. His kin-gor was going all for it, horns down and neck braced. He shoulder-barged Ghurlag from the side, too close to bring his own horns down. Ghurlag span and lashed out, but Ba'lan caught the blow on his forearm. Pain resounded to his shoulder from the force of impact, but he gave no sign of it, instead punching Ghurlag in the ribs. His brother attempted to kick out at him, but Ba'lan was too speedy, and he caught the furry leg by the shin with both hands.

Ba'lan moved forward as he lifted the flailing foot, forcing Ghurlag to topple onto his back in the dirt. That was the third occasion in as many days in which he had floored his brother. He put the hoof in while Ghurlag stumbled upright, managing to land a nasty blow or two, which hit home, from the sounds of the grunts.

They circled each other again. Ba'lan had the upper hand so far, but Ghurlag seemed not in the least bit subdued. If anything he appeared to be working up a battle-thirst. Tails lashed, eyes darted. With a snarl, they lept at each other. Ba'lan's chest took a pounding as he attempted to knock his brother's head back. Ghurlag's fists felt like hammer-blows across his sore ribcage. Grunting, he used his full weight to ram his brother away, and followed it up with a hooking punch. Ghurlag took the blow and returned one of his own, jarring Ba'lan's jaw and making him bite his tongue.

'Graah!' he spat blood. Somehow he managed to block the next powerhouse punch, pulling his kin-gor in close.

For a brief second he was staring into his brother's eyes. He saw something there – a sense of vision. In that moment he didn't doubt that Ghurlag had the drive to accomplish his grand goals. He could easily believe that he was wrestling with a future Beastlord. It was more than likely that Ghurlag would win this fight, and Ba'lan was surprised to discover that he would not resent that. The strain of leadership weighed heavily on him, and the idea of being his brother's counsellor sounded appealing. He knew that what Ghurlag had said was true – he was no battle-leader. He was too lost in thought, and he lacked the ambition and drive of someone like his brother.

He probably wouldn't win this fight. He had landed some strong blows on his brother and warded off the worst of those directed against him, and still they were only drawing equal. It was only a matter of time before his brother's fervent new endurance won out. But that wouldn't stop him from trying his best. He might not get another chance to fight with a Beastlord as equals.

Snarling, he smashed his skull into Ghurlag's face, enjoying the feeling of his brother's snout crunching. The twig-bonds that tied Ba'lan's flowing mane back had snapped and he stepped away from his staggering kin-gor trying to clear the hair from his vision. He managed to look in time to see the claw as it lashed out, scarring his chest. Following it came a fist to his gut.

Ba'lan bent double from the pain. It felt like his gut had ruptured. A sledgehammer blow bounced off his back-muscles, causing him to flinch, then reach out desperately. His calloused fingers closed hard around Ghurlag's throat. He forced himself close to his kin-gor, too close for a hard punch. Clawed hands tore at his back to little effect. He headbutted his brother once more, again feeling the crunch of impact on his brother's beastial snout, then he locked horns with his foe.

All else was forgotten, now. The two man-beasts stood braced against each other, only their heads and horns touching now, locked in a struggle of pure power. It was by no means safe. Ba'lan had seen young gors snap their necks in the locked-horn wrestling up north. And that was just ignoring the obvious eye-gouging, skull-scraping nature of the combat itself. He jostled to keep his position. Ghurlag had the advantage in his horn-position – his horns protruded upwards from the tip of his hard skull, unlike Ba'lan's, which curled forward, leaving him vulnerable to a horn in his face or through the eye. Ghurlag also had the advantage of notably bulging neck-muscles, which were slowly beginning to tell. Ba'lan felt his neck being twisted. It was a terrifying experience, to be straining with all your might and still having your body forced against your will. He knew now what it meant to be overpowered. With a roar, Ghurlag twisted and tossed. Ba'lan knew his neck would break if he tried to remain on his feet. He had no option but to roll with the throw, spinning through the air to land on his back. The impact jarred him and he realised breifly that Ghurlag had won already. The last thing he saw was Ghurlag's cloven hoof descending toward his face.

***

They spent most of that day recovering from the challenge. Ba'lan only awoke after Ribbald had flung damp earth on him, dug from a deep hole for just that purpose. His face was a splitting wreck of pain and bust vessels. One of his eyes strained to open against a nasty swelling. Ghurlag, squatting nearby, might be the victor, but he barely looked much better. Blood stained his beard and Ba'lan could see that his snout was disfigured from the trauma of the fight. With a quiet, dignified, nod, he aknowledged Ghurlag's victory. He wasn't going to dispute Ghurlag's hard-won leadership. The realisation that responsibility was no longer his was a crooked grin, his brother pulled him to his feet.

'You still fight hard, brother' Ghurlag said, clapping him on the back. And suddenly things were easier.

Ghurlag didn't seem to want to waste any time. They set out east in the evening, having paused only to bury their hoard of weaponry. Ghurlag took his two sabres from the loot, as well as a chainmail helmet, crudely reshaped to fit him. Ba'lan stuck to his previous choice of the scimitar and axe. Ribbald picked the same. They left their bone-blades with the rest of the stash and marked the spot. Ghurlag was setting a tremendous pace, far harder than Ba'lan had ever marched them. Then again, there had never been any true purpose to Ba'lan's movements. He hadn't aspired to much beyond keeping them all alive. Now, it felt like they were on a quest – a true adventure. Ghurlag's vision was becoming infectious. Even Ribbald seemed filled with energy. Ghurlag's warband seemed less of an insane proposal now. Ba'lan was already wondering what battle would be their first, what name they would take, what foes they would face.

-- Sorry that the story's a little slow so far, but it should start to pick up. I know there's a couple of things wrong so far but please feel free to give guidance in reviews. Thanks for reading! --


	3. Ghurlag's Dream

III – Ghurlag's Dream

The brothers came upon their 'herd' – as it was- before ever reaching the mountains. The area they were passing through that day was one of those where the earth was barren and no grass grew. Ahead, Ba'lan could see the forest that cloaked the approach to the eastern mountains. The humans called the mountains south of here 'World's Edge' – which only reinforced his belief in the supremecy of the gor. The world of the Chosen of Chaos barely began at the mountains.

The area was barren and devoid of cover, so it was a mark of the feeble abilities of the pitiful herd that Ba'lan and his brothers were able to get so close before they were spotted. Ribbald had been the one to first spy them, and Ba'lan and Ghurlag had quickly followed his keen eye. The 'herd' consisted of three rather unimpressive gors and four or five weedy Ungors – the sub-species of runtish creatures that served as slaves and auxillaries to the true Gors.

Ba'lan found the situation amusing. With Ribbald leading them, the brothers were almost on top of the clot-horned dullards before they spotted them – this despite Ghurlag's insistance that they make a bold entrance. Somehow, the creatures they approached managed to miss spotting them as they walked plainly towards them. Whispering, an Ungor finally attracted the herd-leader's attention to the three dangerous-looking intruders. By that point, they were so close that Ba'lan fancied he could hear the warning being passed around. When he thought of the brutal awareness and abilities the old herd's gors had instilled in them all, he realised just how much he had his brothers were scraping the bottom of dung-pit by being in the same environment as these rotbrains.

The herd leader, flanked by his two flunkies and the runts, came to face off against the brothers. They were by no means an impressive sight. The leader held a large tree-limb he appeared to be using as a club. The rest had naught but feeble clubs or sharpened sticks. They all looked underfed and terrified, and one ungor seemed close to collapsing. As Ghurlag stepped forward and began baying a challenge, Ba'lan found himself wondering if it was worth the effort.

The herd's leader seemed somewhat confused by the challenge. It was possible he simply did not understand Ghurlag's dialect, but it should have been obvious what was being said simply from the posture of his opponent. He stepped forward cautiously, raising his improvised mace. Ba'lan heard Ghurlag's contemptuous snort, and knew what his brother was thinking. The enemy gor was either too stupid to understand the rules of a challenge or too cowardly to face Ghurlag unarmed. The one saving grace in the situation seemed to be that the rest of the herd – if you could really call them that - were backing off, whether from respect of the rites of the challenge or simply out of cowardice and fear. Their alarmed expressions made Ba'lan feel much better about his own self-doubt. He may not have Ghurlag's heart, but he was better than these runts by a significant degree.

Ba'lan watched as Ghurlag stomped the ground and began to circle in the formal manner. The gor he faced didn't even seem to understand this simplest of courtesies, and instead of circling came closer, tentatively swinging his cumbersome weapon into an attack position. Ghurlag looked annoyed. In a flash, his blades were out, and the entire enemy herd seemed apprehensive at the sight of steel. Perhaps now they understood how entirely outclassed they were.

The herd's leader looked just as worried, but seemed resolved to try and topple Ghurlag with brute force. He roared and swung his mace clumsily. Ghurlag blocked the attack with one blade, and lashed out with the other, striking at his foe's neck. Blood spurted as arteries opened. Ghurlag cast one of his sabres to the ground point-first so as to tear the tree-limb from his foe's still-protesting grasp and smash him to the ground. The crunch of wood on bone was coupled with the sound of tearing flesh as the gor's neck wound was torn further open. Blood congealed in the dirt.

It was as simple as that – the gor was dead before he even knew it. What's more, he hadn't even managed to work up a sweat from Ghurlag, who looked mightily disappointed at the poor performance. For all the cowering audience knew, Ghurlag with his sabres and chain-helm was untouchable. Ba'lan rubbed his eye, still sore from the combat of nearly a week past. They grovelled at his feet. Ba'lan heard one ungor muttering pleas for mercy – either to Ghurlag or to the Gods. From the runt's perspective, they might aswell have been the same thing.

Apparently, Ghurlag had decided that the entreaties were directed at him, because he kicked the offender hard in the ribs, evoking a cry of pain.

'You are weak' he spat at them all, tossing their former leader's weapon dismissively over his shoulder and drawing his other sabre from the ground. Ba'lan could see the apprehension in their eyes. To be honest, he had as little idea as they whether they would live out the day. Ghurlag might well decide they were too weak to be part of his envisioned warband. He couldn't say he would fault that decision.

Ghurlag seemed in no hurry to put them out of their misery. He stood there observing them, sneering at their grovelling, his blades twitching in his hands. Ba'lan could tell that Ghurlag was still in the mood for violence, and his urge to slay was warring with something else. Mind-wrestling wasn't easy for most gors, and Ba'lan appreciated how difficult it was for Ghurlag not to simply cut the runts down to simplify matters. Eventually, his brother seemed to reach a decision.

'We will make you strong' he said, some frustration evident in his tone. 'Follow'

With that he turned and walked back to his brothers, not bothering to check if the relieved beasts followed or not. Ba'lan did check, and he saw them slowly pick themselves up off the ground and traipse warily in Ghurlag's path, flinching as they passed Ribbald, who gave each of them his usual impassive stare.

Ba'lan was somewhat surprised. He would never have been as confident in his ability to command foreign beasts as Ghurlag seemed to be. That was probably why the Gods had decreed that Ghurlag should lead. He went to congratulate his kin-gor, already headed east, but paused when he saw the look of irritation on Ghurlag's features. Obviously Ghurlag was not at ease with the necessity of adopting such weak specimens of gor for his fledgling warherd. It seemed the Dark Gods did not bless him and his ambitions as strongly as he thought.

***

Ghurlag regretted ever telling Ba'lan about his opening of the mind. It had begun as simple bragging, as they both laughed at the wounds they had inflicted on each other during the challenge that had seen his rise. But something had prompted him to explain how he had arrived at his vision, and he had told Ba'lan of the insight the Ruinous Powers had blessed him with after his previous dressing-down, when he had imagined he could see himself at the head of a terrible warband. Ba'lan had been sceptical, and had irritated Ghurlag with his doubts, but he had shrugged off the annoyance. As his advisor, it would be up to Ba'lan to voice doubts and ask questions. Surely, in a Wargor's camp, only a beast who was both kin and a powerful warrior could do so and live, and only Ba'lan fit that bill well enough.

But now it seemed the gods had joined Ba'lan in their doubts of Ghurlag. This pitiful herd was the result of his quickly-resolved challenge, and it seemed like poor offal indeed, considering the towering heights he aspired to. Ghurlag recalled the images he had seen - Himself, stood on a rocky summit, baying a command and hearing the voices of many gors reply. Steel and bronze, tearing weak foes from his path, his form muscular and powerful. Tarnish on his blade as it plunged deep into some unknown foe. A desolate battlefield, with corpses festering in the mud. It was a glorious vision that any gor would aspire to.

He would not let that future escape him. Ba'lan might think his vision false, but he knew that he was just being tested. Overcoming his brother had just the first of many trials the gods would set before him. He had suceeded there and he would suceed here, and again, and again. If the Gods gave him weaklings, he would make warriors out of them.  
He shrugged off the attentions of his brothers and set a furious pace eastward. The mountains loomed closer now, and it would be upon those granite anvils that he would forge the tools of his future.

***

Slowly. That was the way. A hunter could not afford to move rashly, lest he disturb his prey. Ba'lan kept this old mantra in mind as he gently paced through the trees, hugging the trunks. He could just about make out the sound of the hunting party moving with him, spaced out to the rear. It had been a long process, forging these runts into hunters, and they were by no means polished in their skill. He had dismissed many of the new gors from this hunt because their woodcraft was simply too pitiful. Winter was settling on the eastern mountains, and it was no longer possible to humour amateurs in the hunts. Even those few gors that made the cut had been told to hang back. It was, surprisingly, the ungors which made better hunters here in the forest. Their small forms were lent to quiet movement, and many were adept at hiding, having spent their whole lives trying to avoid the attentions of their larger cousins. Of course, they were weaker than gors, and dumber, so they fell to the bottom of any social group. But their degrading second-class status also filled them with a bitter anger which they loved to unleash on the prey. Ba'lan had often caught them tormenting a fallen deer needlessly after a hunt. He allowed them that small joy sometimes – to be honest, he too enjoyed the sight of the graceful creatures dying ugly deaths of pain and despair. Something in him hated their superior speed and beauty, and he loved to see it destroyed.

Ahead, he could see Ribbald's faint form. As always, Ribbald was guiding the group towards their mark. Stealth and silence was truly his domain, but that was no great revelation, considering that the gods had shaped him for silence. Ba'lan waved those around him into readiness as he saw Ribbald signal that they approached their target. They had been tracking a family of boar since dawn, venturing far from their normal paths in pursuit. Insofar as the herd had any real 'territory' here, they had ventured far beyond it. Ba'lan was as watchful for other herds as he was for signs of prey. So far they had been lucky in their encounters – the beastmen they had encountered over the last few months had either submitted to Ghurlag's leadership or stayed well away. It couldn't last. The essence of the gor was to seek conflict, and sooner or later the young herd would be brought to war against the other tribes that haunted the forests of these mountains.

Now, however, focus was needed. Ba'lan felt a mixture of superiority and annoyance as he realised just how much more skillful he was, compared to his apprentice hunters. True, they were good, but they had none of the instinctive ability that was necessary for hunting out on the plains. Here in the forest, they managed, but in the sparse cover of the plains he had no doubt they would flounder. Their lack of skill was being highlighted by the way they cracked twigs and disturbed leaves while in comparison his hooves made no more sound than a moth landing, each step carefully placed. His superiority here proved to him that he truly was a beast of worth, yet the fumbling attempts of his underlings also proved that he hadn't yet taught them well enough. He would have disciplined them, but the group were too close to the boar for him to risk any noise.

Ribbald suddenly drew his axe up ahead, the dull steel catching Ba'lan's attention from where he had been regarding his steps. Instinctively he had his scimitar at the ready, his trust of his brother allowing him to arm himself just in time to see the boar break from a thicket and head right towards them.  
There were four of the creatures, one a huge black-coated beast with fearsome tusks and scarred features that spoke of a previous hunt. All four were racing full pelt towards the party that had been pursuing them This was something that Ba'lan had seen before with wily boar – they burst unannounced from the undergrowth, terrified their trackers into disarry, and swept on past, doubling back on themselves to make the hunt so much more wearisome. Against fresh hunters this was an often-effective trick.  
Ribbald was no such hunter, however. As the beasts pelted past him, he hurled his handaxe with a muted grunt. The weapon impacted in the side of a bulky light-brown sow, and as it stumbled, the beastman leapt to wrestle with his prey.

Ba'lan was not taken unawares either. He placed himself in front of the leading boar watching the oncoming force, then stepping aside and lashing out at the last second to score a cut down the flank of the creature. Ignoring the wound as if a gnat-bite, the beast plunged on. The ungors were only slowly starting to react, their ashen hunting spears jabbing ineffectively at the charging beasts. Snarling, Ba'lan snatched one of the spears from a beast slower than the rest. With a roar, he propelled it after the fleeing lead boar, its honed point penetrating the creature's upper thigh, causing it to tumble in its headlong the ungors were on the downed foe, jabbing at it, piercing flesh and goading roars, avoiding the swings of the lethal tusks with terrified backward leaps, all the while jeering and yipping. After a moment of recovery, Ba'lan ended it, drawing his axe and shattering the creature's thick skull. The ungors sniffed a little at this premature end to the life, but set about the task of preparing to transport the beast.

Ribbald wandered over and waved for two ungors to help him move the carcass of the great sow. He had slit the beast's throat with a knife alone, having somehow wrestled his way atop the heaving creature. The other two had vanished into the forest. There was a certain urge to track them down and finish the destruction of the family, but Ba'lan knew there was no need. They had enough here to feed the herd, and now their priority was to get that flesh to Ghurlag and the other gors.

***

By the time they had reached the camp once more, a cloak of darkness was cast over the forest. The winter months brought scarce little daylight, and more and more the herd were forced to move by night. Ghurlag welcomed their kills with his usual solemn approval. He declared that the task of hunting was now below him, but Ba'lan suspected that his brother simply didn't want to be shown up by him or Ribbald, both of whom were better at the craft than he. It was a sensible enough move – as Foe-Render, he had the authority to have hunts carried out for him, and if he could avoid losing face, then why not? Instead Ghurlag remained at the camp with the gors, sparring both as a form of training and so as to re-establish his dominion over his stronger subjects.  
The kills were divided. One went straight to Ghurlag, who took his honourary first bite, and then allowed his brothers and then gors to join him in devouring the fresh carcass. The other was sent to the fire to be slow-roasted on a spit. The ungors pranced warily around the first feast, staying far enough away to avoid being lashed out at, but close enough to grab any scraps that were dropped. Though they had done more than the gors to obtain the meal, it was battle-prowess that decided your share. With eleven hungry gors tearing at it, the boar was soon diminished. Before long, the carcass was devoid of much meat, and the gors retired to their positions around the camp, belching foul gases. The ungors rushed forward to pick over the leftovers, cracking the bones for marrow and scrabbling in the dirt for scraps of discarded meat. His hunger sated, Ba'lan settled comfortably by the fire and watched the other kill sizzle as Ribbald began to rotate the skewer lazily.  
It was becoming obvious that he and his silent brother were naturally gravitating to the top of the new herd. It was not just because of their relationship with Ghurlag, either. They had all the skill and ability of gors trained by the tough Norse herds, coupled with the experience of their long journey southwards. They were natural winners. In contrast, the beasts they found in these mountian forests were... odd. The specimens Ghurlag had initially conquered proved a good example of many of those they had met so far. They all seemed somewhat lacking in spirit, as if a great tragedy had overcome them. When pressed, they all claimed to have come from herds on the other side of the mountain range, but grew evasive when pressed further. Some mentioned black-armoured warriors, while others muttered to each other about greenskins. It seemed some great conflict had erupted across the mountains, and Ba'lan rather suspected that these were the beasts that had survived that conflict through cowardice rather than die fighting for their land. Or at least, most of them were. One or two of the gors seemed to have been injured and left for dead on the battlefield. Like Ghraximag, for example. The hulking, brutish gor slumped by the fire across from Ba'lan, patting his gut happily. One of his horns was shattered at half-length, and a deep scar and slurred speech seemed to imply a blow to the skull had laid him low at some point. Ba'lan hadn't bothered to question him much yet, but it seemed he would have to soon. Ghurlag relied on him for advice, and he needed information to advise his brother well. If there was a threat or a chance of glory over the mountains, Ghurlag needed to know of it. It was alarming, now he considered it, how little they knew about most of the herd. Ba'lan knew something of the stories behind four of the gors in the camp – aside from himself, Ribbald and Ghurlag, of course. He could make a guess at Ghraximag's story, but all the others were complete mysteries to him. Two of them he didn't even know the names of. And then there were the ungors, of course, but they didn't have names, and their cowardice was assumed anyway. Ungors were like dirt – they accumulated around true gors wherever they gathered, and if not properly motivated, they fell off, unnoticed, during battle.  
Ghurlag himself barely seemed to notice the ungors. It was only the gors he paid attention to – he went to great lengths to impress them and keep them in check. So far he had had to fight four challenges, discounting the one with Ba'lan where he had won leadership and the one on the plains where he had won his herd. Each challenge had been a simple matter, with Ghurlag overpowering his opponent or, as in Ghraximag's case, outwitting them, with little effort on his part. Each challenge had bought the herd a gor, or a gor and some ungor followers. Even these conquests seemed unnecessary, though - it seemed that simply existing as a herd drew stragglers to them, as though the Dark Gods gathered their children together through some unseen design.

Ghurlag's commitment to making the weakling southerners more battle-hardy was one that was slowly bearing fruit. The sparring practise hardened the gors while the hunts did the same for the runtling ungors. Being well-fed and well-led seemed to be the majority of what was necessary – with the right conditions, beastmen naturally shaped themselves for war.

The warmth of the fire was pleasing, and Ba'lan felt slumber beginning to take him. He could see Gharximag was already asleep nearby, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Ghurlag kicking an ungor from a good sleeping-spot. A pleasant mildness overcame him and he let himself drift into the darker depths.

***

_A vast plain of stinking, bubbling marshland stretched before Ba'lan, gigantic white mushrooms the only plantlife and cloud of flies the only movement. He felt a squelching sensation and looked down to see that his hooves were being sucked into the boggy ground. Trancelike, he ignored his impending doom and turned instead to watch the flies as they drew nearer. They seemed somehow disfigured, and Ba'lan grew frustrated as he tried to examine them, only to find that whenever he looked at one, it would explode into yellow puss. He attempted to wriggle free from the ground so as to chase them, but the marsh had already claimed him to the hips, and he was completely immobilised. Somewhere, he knew he should feel afraid, but he couldn't seem to summon the emotion. He would sink into the marsh and die, and that seemed perfectly acceptable to him. He began to trace a pattern in the mud with a claw. Three circles next to each other. The pattern was fascinating, although why he could not say. It felt as if a cloud had settled over his mind. _

_A sloshing sound announced that someone approached. As he looked up he noticed breifly that the flies all carried the same mark he traced. It meant something, then. But what? The sloshing sound came from behind Ba'lan and he found that while he could not move, he could turn on the spot. He did so, the dark muddy water reaching his chest now.  
A horned figure clad in robes approached him, their face concealed by a hood. For some reason the figure's hooves did not sink below the surface. An air of disease radiated from inside the robes, though Ba'lan could see little reason why. Suddenly a thought struck him. This was a shaman. He attempted to prostrate himself, only to find that the mud would not allow it. The shaman drew closer and stopped, regarding him. Suddenly he remembered fear – he was about to begin to beg for his life, but a slimy claw-finger indicated he should remain silent. A hand reached down, and Ba'lan gratefully lifted his own arm so the wise-beast could pull him free. The shaman disregarded the limb, and leant closer to place his hand on Ba'lan's head. And push._

_Ba'lan had time for one gurgled scream before the dark foul water claimed him utterly._

_***_

Ba'lan awoke with a gasp, as if he had indeed just surfaced from a boggy marsh, rather than a dream. He lay there panting for a while, noting that the fire had died down while he slept, trying to distract himself from the memory of his dream. Dreams such as that one were more omen than he was comfortable with. Hunger stabbed at him, though he had eaten only recently. It seemed that such dreaming took its toll on the body, too – he felt as if he had just been through a wrestling bout. Standing up, he unsteadily made his way over to the cooked meat on the spit. Some of it was burnt where it had been left over the fire too long. Ba'lan drew his iron knife, searching for a good cut. As he did so, something caught his eye out past the fire.

He turned to find that a monstrous shape was picking its way through the camp towards him. Ba'lan's throat was paralysed with shock at the intrusion. The creature was something that might once have been a bull or cow, but had long since been twisted beyond recognition by the Ruinous Powers. It had large, thick horns, each spearing out from its head to a deadly point, a good three feet or so beyond its hideous face, which was a mass of wriggling tentacles and teeth behind which some malevolent eyes could just be made creature was bulky and muscular like nothing Ba'lan had ever seen, looking like nothing so much as a gigantic boulder made flesh. Clawlike limbs supported its weight, while to its rear, four tails lashed, their tips like bone maces. It seemed intent on the boarflesh behind Ba'lan – obviously it had been drawn here by the scent of food.

'Ra-aaak' Ba'lan managed eventually, summoning a wordless cry to alert the herd. The bull-thing glanced at him with dark hatred in its eyes, and bellowed loudly in response. Instantly, the camp was a bustle of confusion, as beasts leapt to their feet and stumbled around in surprise at the sight of the dread intruder.

The creature bellowed again, and began to barge through the camp, headed right at Ba'lan by the spit. Prudently, he flung himself out the way, grazing his arms on a rock as he did so. The creature had ignored him completely, and was attempting to use its mass of tentacles to tear the boar from the spit. Around it, gors scrabbled for weapons. Ba'lan saw Ribbald step forward at the creature's flank, only to be sent flying by a blow from one of the dangerous-looking tails. Next to him, he saw the flash of Ghurlag drawing his sabres. The bull-creature had now suceeded in pulling the boar from the spit, and it was beginning to turn. Ba'lan searched hurriedly for his weapons, finding his scimitar on the earth nearby. As he spun ready to use it, he saw that Ghurlag had already moved to face the creature, sparks flying as the steel blades bounced from the beast's horns. Ghurlag was snarling at the creature ferociously, obviously enraged by the intruder. For its part, it seemed thoroughly irritated by this beast preventing its escape. For a good couple of minutes the two faced off, Ghurlag dodging the creature's lunges and scoring a series of cuts down the beast's flanks and across its face. The rest of the herd warily attempted to close on it in the meanwhile, kept back by the flailing tails and bucking hindlimbs. Ba'lan had attempted to stay close to Ghurlag at the front of the beast, and so,when it happened, he was in the best position to see how Ghurlag got struck.

The faceoff had been circling around the remains of the fire thus far, but to avoid the last lunge, Ghurlag had been forced to leap into the embers. This in itself was no problem for a hooved beast, but, as the bull turned again, Ghurlag, moving backwards, stumbled over the remains of the spit that had held the boar. He instantly righted himself, but the tumble was all the bull needed – with a roar it slammed the full force of its mass into the Foe-Render, sending him skittering across the ground, his weapons torn from his grasp by the impact.

Ba'lan attempted to dash forward and stop the beast, but it thundered past him, trampling an ungor that also attempted to get in its way as it stormed out into the night. There was a horrified silence from the gors around the fire. Ba'lan saw Ribbald stood bleeding nearby, a gash down his chest as a jagged reminder of the creature's fearsome tail. But there were bigger concerns than that. He hurried over to where Ghurlag lay against a rock, silent and unmoving. Fearing the worst, he reached out to his leader and kin-gor.

There was the distinct feeling of a strong, beating heart. Ghurlag's eyes flutted open blearily, then snapped awake. An expression of pure anger was wrought across his features, causing even Ba'lan to back off as his brother pulled himself up. Ribbald limped over, and Ghurlag faced his two brothers, all others fading back to avoid being the target of their leader's anger. A shout from Ghraximag confirmed that the trampled ungor was dead. No-one reacted, their eyes fixed on Ghurlag, who turned to stare out into the dark

'Ready the hunt' he commanded.


	4. Plague

**IV – Plague**

Hooves on snow. A crunch with the slightest hint of squelch layered beneath it, like biting on a beetle. The sound had become as familiar as the sensation over the last few days. Ba'lan could feel the wind biting at his chest, snowflakes settling in his fur then melting to drench him with icy water. His ribs ached from a combination of cold and hunger. He hadn't eaten since the night the chase had begun.

Ghurlag's anger at the beast was unrelenting. Ever since the night of the attack, they had not stopped, had not rested, had not once strayed from the chase to sleep or to eat. And what a chase it was! Nothing Ba'lan had ever hunted before had been like this creature. Trails doubled back, looped and disappeared entirely. It seemed that the gods had blessed the fearsome beast with devillish intelligence. If it wasn't for Ribbald's uncanny ability, they would have lost the creature already.

And there was the other driving force behind this hunt. Not only was Ghurlag foaming at the mouth, Ribbald also seemed filled with a hellish desire for revenge – he pushed so hard through the woods that that even Ba'lan couldn't keep up with him. Whenever they were forced to stop and examine a trail, Ba'lan's kin-gor would stroke the gash down his chest, as if reminding himself of the hurt the beast had dealt him.

Ba'lan shook water from his eyes and made sure his blade was loose. Nearby, Ghraximag and another gor were scanning the undergrowth warily. That was the other thing about this chase. The hunter frequently became the hunted. Three times the beast had burst from nowhere and charged them. Three ungors had fallen prey to rending claw and gouging horn. In the last attack, a gor by the name of Ta'cus had been torn apart, the broken body tossed through the air and speared on a tree-limb to hang like a rabbit. The beast had taken a spear to the chest and raced away like it was a pinprick. Whatever this creature was, it was tough. Tough, intelligent and merciless. The price for letting your guard down was hefty indeed.

A low bleat from behind told him that an ungor was approaching. The warning was a new idea of Ba'lan's. They had had... incidents... in the past day or so. Tension was running high, and emerging from the undergrowth unannounced was a good way to receive an axe to the head. All the gors carried steel-bladed weapons from the brothers' private stash, and were more than capable of ending an ungor's life in one hastily-delivered blow.

Stepping carefully into a position where he was in Ghraximag's line-of-sight, Ba'lan turned to face the ungor, which cowered as it approached. He saw the fresh scar across its skull and thought he could guess why it was particularly cautious.

He nodded at it. Wasting energy talking was something he had given up during the second night of the hunt.

'The Foe-Render demands news' the creature muttered, keeping its voice low. Ghurlag fancied he recognised it as a reliable individual from the boar-hunt, though it hardly mattered. He sucked some snowflakes from his hair to wet his throat.

'The tracks continue north for now' he responded 'No more signs of blood. Kin-Gor Ribbald is far ahead of us as yet'

There had been a few droplets of blood scattered in the trail earlier today – what caused it they couldn't be sure, but it had given them hope the beast was weakening. That hope now seemed dried up. The ungor bowed low and moved off the way it had come. The herd had taken to moving in scattered groups to better keep an eye out for the trail. Gors moved in close groups, with ungors moving between them. At the front, Ribbald forged ahead of them all – Ba'lan attempted to keep his group as close to his brother as possible, but it often proved impossible. Ghurlag stayed in the centre, driving everyone on and regularly demanding that they find the beast. It had been him that gave the order to move in this formation, but it had been Ba'lan that had suggested it, privately, in one of the few moments he had had to talk personally with his brother. The message he had just sent back was an example of most of the communication keeping the hunt going these past few days.

***

The hunt pressed on. Hooves on snow, snorts of laboured breath from his two companions, rustling of leaves. Ba'lan kept his sights on Ribbald's trail, and attempted to pick out the trail that his brother was following. It was at the very limits of his skill – faint prints being filled by snow, the occasional broken branch... it seemed impossible that a creature could be as large as this beast and still move with such grace. By all rights, it should be buckling tree-limbs as it passed. Every now and then he made sure to leave a tracker's sign by the path, so the others could keep on-track behind them.

Suddenly, noise from ahead – rustling and smashing. Ahead meant only two things. Ribbald, and the beast. Ribbald didn't make noise. The three gors looked at each other in alarm. Ba'lan waved at Ghraximag, who ran forward to join him as he hurried towards the sounds. The other gor fell back to alert the rest of the herd, bleating alarm-calls.

Ba'lan felt the familiar grips of his weapons, fingering the well-worn handles as he plunged through the undergrowth, ready to draw them at a second's notice. Branches lashed at his bare chest, the impacts made more painful by the biting cold and ice. Several of the more slender branches had frozen solid, and shattered as he collided with them. Next to him Ghraximag panted as he kept pace, using his brute strength to force his way through the obstacles Ba'lan had avoided with his woodcraft.

Panting and on-edge, they broke into a clearing. Ba'lan paused at the sight in front of him. Ribbald was duelling the beast. That much could be expected. It was the way that he did it that was pauseworthy. He was riding the beast. However he had managed it, he had got on the creature's back, and plunged his scimitar deep into its flesh. Now the silent brother was laying about with his handaxe, parrying the flailing tails and hacking into flesh while the beast bucked insanely, using his blade as an anchoring-point. It was not to last, though. With the same kind of malicious intelligence that caused it to double back and hunt them, the beast swiftly and suddenly flung itself into a roll to crush the pain-source on its hide. Ribbald just about managed to jump free, hitting the ground scant metres from where the creature regained its feet, its tentacle-mouth issuing a delighted whinney that seemed completely at odds with its physiology and size. Ba'lan saw the giant foreclaws flex and thought he knew what was coming next. With a bellow, he broke from where he had paused to take in the scene, and charged toward the creature, weapons draw. Ghraximag came alongside him, issuing some eastern-tribe battlecry as he waved his twin axes.

The noise caused the beast to turn, snorting in disapproval. Ba'lan remembered just in time to dodge the swipe of the great mace-like tails. He let them swing past, then darted forward quickly as the beast began to turn, heading to its rump. With two quick strikes, Ba'lan struck the number of tails the creature possessed down to three, the dangerous limb collapsing lifeless to the floor as dark blood spurted out. His third strike was aimed at the beast's lower spine, but it never landed.

As he swung, a hammer-like blow struck his chest and he was sent sprawling in the dirt, bile and blood rising in his throat as stars spun in his seemed on the verge of overcoming him, and it was only with his continued drive to fight that he managed to stave it off. Colours came back. Ba'lan realised he could see the shapes of Ghraximag and the beast in front of him. A few vital seconds of confusion reigned before Ba'lan's brain caught on to what had happened. The creature had kicked him. If it had been hooved, it would likely have killed him. Likewise if the fearsome claws it boasted had fronted that blow. He was probably unbelievably lucky to have survived. He turned his head and vomited a gush of black blood and yellow bile.

Lucky.

His body seemed to be weakened from the blow he had taken – as he pulled himself to his feet, he realised he was trembling from exertion. Wiping his eyes, he tried to focus on the battle taking place in front of him. Ghraximag was somehow holding his own, avoiding the creature's fearsome horns and laying about with his axes. One of the weapons lodged deep into the beast's chest, and it let out a gargled howl of pain in response, its three remaining tails pounding the earth in fury. With a snarl of joy, Ghraximag used his not-inconsiderable strength to propell his remaining weapon into one of the beast's kneecaps. The kneecap of the leg that had laid him low, Ba'lan noted with pleasure. The blow was good, and the leg crumpled. Ba'lan felt like howling with joy. Ghraximag had done it! The creature was lamed!

What came next was a demonstration of either amazing bravery or incredible stupidity. Deprived now of both his weapons, Ghraximag chose not to back off, but instead to run forwards, head down, as if to lock horns with this creature that was easily four times his weight. The idea was ridiculous not only because of the space between the creature's own three foot long ivory spears, but because Ghraximag had only one full-length horn, the other a hacked-off shard of a horn that would be no use even in a horn-locking with a gor. Nonetheless, Ghraximag plunged on. It was only when he stood inbetween the beast's horns, in the bewildered gaze of the creature, that he realised that what he attempted was impossible.

Ba'lan watched in fascination as Ghraximag instead reached up and grabbed hold of the beast's horns, and began to twist and pull, shaking the fearsome monstrosity's head and shouting curses into its face. For a few moments, it seemed as if the gor was really going to manage it – was really going to wrestle the creature to the ground with his bulging muscles and snap its neck. Then reality reasserted itself, and the creature tossed Ghraximag in the air with a toss of its neck, lashing out with a fearsome claw to disembowel the gor as he hit the ground, and leaning forward to finish the job with its mass of tooth-edged tentacles. Then it turned to face Ba'lan.

He sighed heavily and raised his scimitar in both hands. He had no idea where his axe had gone, and it seemed that he wouldn't have the opportunity to find out. His facial fur stained with blood and vomit, he staggered forward to give his best. A short prayer to the Gods seemed in order, but he couldn't think of one. Snorting, the beast moved forward slowly, trampling what remained of Ghraximag in the process. It was lamed, but Ba'lan saw that it would still be able to move with some speed when it pounced, which it would surely do. Noise from behind caught his ears. The herd! Suddenly Ba'lan was filled with fresh vigour. All he had to do was hold the creature here for a short while! He could hear Ghurlag's distinctive bellow echoing through the trees, and now more than ever he wished for his brother's twin sabres to be here.

It appeared that the beast had also caught the sounds, however. It glanced into the trees, glanced at Ba'lan, and made to flee, awkwardly bounding towards the edge of the clearing.

That was when Ribbald showed himself again. It seemed he had used the time Ba'lan and Ghraximag bought him well, because he now leapt at the beast, not from the shadows or undergrowth, but from the limbs of a tree at the edge of the clearing. He hurtled through the air to land astride the beast, which sagged from the impact. Leaping forward, Ribbald brought his handaxe down in a series of wild chopping motions on the beast's head. The first blow snapped one of the mighty horns. The second sheared some tentacles. The third implanted the axe firmly in the creature's skull with a 'crack' that echoed around the clearing with chilling finality. Ribbald rolled clear as Ba'lan drew close, panting heavily. The beast was staggering around at the edge of the clearing, not quite dead but heavily stunned. Ba'lan was about to move to finish it off when the rest of the herd burst into the clearing, bleating and bellowing as they closed on the creature in an overwhelming charge. Ba'lan sank to the floor next to Ribbald, and together they watched as Ghurlag, leading the charge, exacted his revenge on the beast.

***

Ba'lan waved away the approaching beastmen before they even got to make their demands. They turned away, grumbling, and one of the gors cuffed an ungor out of annoyance. Ba'lan couldn't care less. It had been months since the slaying of the beast, and they still approached him every night to hear the tale. Even the new beasts gathered around in fascination when he was eventually forced to tell the tale, though they had never taken part in the hunt. He hadn't minded to begin with, but seeing as he was the only gor who could tell the whole tale, it quickly grew irritating to repeat it nightly. It made it no easier that the tale was inherently a good one – it extolled the battle-virtues of both himself and Ribbald, and Ghraximag's memory was alternately revered and mocked by the audience, who respected his incredible bravery like he was a Wargor of legend, but nevertheless laughed when Ba'lan inflected the story with humour at his attempt to wrestle the gigantic beast. And of course, the tale ended with Ghurlag finishing the beast, leading many gors to sit around for hours and speculate on how the fight might have gone if the Foe-Render had been there from the start. Typically, now, the story was called to an end by Ribbald blowing on the hunting-horn that had been crafted from the piece of the beast's horn he had struck from its head. Ba'lan turned his head and noticed that his brother was sat toying with the instrument not far behind him. That was probably what had drawn the group- they tended to assume the story would be told if Ba'lan and Ribbald sat close together.

Ribbald noticed him looking and nodded an acknowledgement. He had blown the horn today, but in hunt, rather than at the end of a story. He seemed rather attached to the horn, which seemed quite reasonable. Not only was the trophy a reminder of what was possibly one of his most praiseworthy achievements, it also allowed him a 'voice' of sorts, something which had been denied him since birth. Ba'lan nodded back lazily. He was in a good mood- the hunt today had proved fruitful for once, and the cold less harsh. It seemed like winter was slowly beginning to release its grip on the forests of the mountains. Their relative success over the past few months seemed to be a sign of the Gods' favour. Food had grown scarce as usual, but their skirmishes with weaker beastmen tribes had meant that they had only been forced to eat one of their own ungors, and such a low rate of cannibalism through the winter was good for morale. The hunting of the beast, and this well-omened winter, had made the herd a much closer-knit and dangerous group. When the warmer months started in earnest, Ba'lan wondered if there would be any herds in these mountains capable of equalling their might.

Such concerns were remote at the moment, though. He began to pick at his hoof, trying to dislodge a stone that had got stuck there earlier in the day. Winter had forced the herd to become more nomadic in order to find sustenance, and they changed camp every few days, looking for new grounds to hunt. They had chosen this camp because the ground was oddly free of frost around here, and there were signs of new growth in the area. Beastmen – gors, at least, rarely stooped to eating plantlife, but prey congregated at sites like this in the winter. That said, the hunt had found its quarry some distance from the site of growth, which seemed unsual.

Ba'lan paused in his efforts at digging out the stone, and stood up. The group he had dismissed had taken to pelting each other with stones out of boredom. As his gaze passed over them, they turned to pelting an ungor, which quickly scurried for cover. Nearby, some more refined gors sat solemnly around Ghurlag, who was giving some kind of speech. Other ungors drifted around the camp, investigating nooks and crannies – no doubt hoping to stumble upon some edible scrap. Nothing was amiss. Yet he felt troubled. His mind turned back, not for the first time, to the dream he had had the night the beast had invaded their camp. It seemed laden with bad omens, and Ba'lan got the chills when he recalled it, but he couldn't dechiper what meaning, if any, it held. He hadn't bothered telling anyone about it – it was doubtful that any other gor in camp would be able to succeed in understanding something _he _had trouble with.

A bleat of excitement came from a group of ungors, and Ba'lan shook his thoughts clear. The feeling was probably nothing more than bad digestion from the fresh meat. He scraped his hoof, finally getting rid of that stone, and wandered over to see if the ungors had actually found anything interesting. They certainly seemed to think so – they had already fallen to fighting over it, battering at each other and yipping in their own perversion of the Beast-Tongue. He strode through them, and they parted like grass before such a prominent gor, falling to settle their dispute to his side. He checked the rocks they had been peering at and snorted dismissively as he saw what they were scrapping over. Mushrooms. Ungors sometimes ate vegetation in the winters. He was about to turn away when something about their arrangement caught his eye. He turned back to find that the pattern was eluding him once more. He squatted, curious. The mushrooms were small and white, with bulbous yellow splotches dotting their surface. They seemed close to bursting, and Ba'lan would have guessed they were ready to spore. He was distracted as an ungor blundered into the patch, apparently the winner of the scuffle, according to the way he grabbed at them. Pods burst and clouds of spores washed over Ba'lan and the ungors. Ba'lan batted the runtling away, snarling at it. The creature backed off, confused. Gors didn't usually pay any attention to the vegetation.

Ba'lan regarded the fungi a few moments more, then suddenly he saw what he had been looking for. They were arranged in small patterns of three, identical to the shape had had drawn in his dream months ago. Inbetween each group, creepers seemed to intentionally divide each mushroom. The sign was horrifically familiar, and not just from his dream. He staggered back from the fungal growth, and back over to where he had been sitting, letting the ungor dive back in to consume the mushrooms. This was not good at all.

The first death occurred that night. The ungor that had consumed the mushrooms was consumed with pain mere minutes after the event, still chewing some of the spongy substance even as its eyes spewed puss and its insides rotted outwards, spewing a foul gas over the surprised camp. Ba'lan urged for breaking camp, but Ghurlag wouldn't listen – instead he had the body carted off and burnt by some of the creature's fellows.

They were the next ones to succumb. Roughly an hour after returning from burning the body, they were gripped by a strange fever that, from what Ba'lan saw, made their blood bite at them like poison and their skin jaundice, along with many other unpleasant things. They did not enjoy a quick death – instead they slowly died at the edge of the herd. In the final stages, their fur dropped out in clumps and their bones became brittle, ribs slowly snapping until their lungs failed and their corpses began to rot. Fear gripped the camp, despite Ghurlag's insistance that the strong would prevail.

Ba'lan would have tried to insist that they broke camp, but by this point, it was too late. He began coughing blood before the last of the jaundiced ungors died. He had been feeling distinctly unwell ever since the mushroom spores had washed over him. He began blacking out, and when he awoke, he would find that he was clawing at himself, trying to scrape spores from his face. The rest of the herd stayed well away from him, even his brothers, and he hated them for their health and their pity. A dread feeling of despair overcame him at one point, and he led, lethargic, on the ground, staring up at the darkened sky through the fingers of the trees.

The rest of the herd were starting to exhibit symptoms by this point. Ba'lan found some malicious pleasure in seeing their alarm as they began to cough blood and vomit. Why should he be alone? He dragged himself to his feet and staggered unsteadily over to the mushroom patch, pausing to vomit at the feet of a groaning ungor. The most part of the fungi had been scoffed by the deceased ungor hours ago, but it was still possible to see where they had stood. Through swirling vision, he counted the patterns. Seven. He laughed, and found that the air seemed to tear at his lungs. Seven Marks of Nurgle. The Number of the Plagues that Nurgle, the Lord of Decay, promised to unleash at the end-times.

'Nurrgleshh' he brayed aloud. The herd regarded him with alarm.

'The Lord of Decay bringss our doom' he spluttered, before collapsing.

As his body was wracked with the torments of the fever, he found his mind was straying ever further from his body. Reality mixed with... something else, as he lost control of his senses.

_Pestilant maggots writhed_ beneath his hand as he rolled himself over _in the grime of Nurgle's garden._ A figure stood above him _weilding a scythe that dripped poison. _He tried to stand, but the strength had left him. He collapsed to the ground, and felt his body writhe with pain as his skin yellowed.

_'Plead'_

Yes, that was it. Gripping... something... he began to call out for Nurgle to stay his hand, pleading and begging for salvation. The brothers had always followed the example of their old herd, and revered each of the Four Powers equally. It was nearest you could get to neutrality in the games the Great Powers played with their children – the surest way to avoid finding a powerful enemy. But Ba'lan was under no illusions that such dithering faith would protect him now. If the Plague Lord was going to stay his hand, then nothing less than complete devotion would be needed. He cried out hoarse devotions as he felt his blood set alight with raw pain. He tried all the platitudes and promises he could think of, but nothing seemed to work. Around him he was somewhat aware of the herd collapsing in similar throes, but the image was overlain with one of a diseased mountain attended by clouds of flies.

His repertoire of platitudes worn out, Ba'lan was left to chant 'Nurgle, Nurgle' over and over again on the floor, each repetition growing weaker. He soiled himself violently and rolled in the stinking filth, but still no alleviation came.

It was about the time that the boils burst out over his yellowed hide that he gave up. White puss dripping from the boils that had popped, he sat there, staring down at his wrecked body. Who would have thought that his life would end like this? A worthless pawn, to be left to rot on the whimsy of some morbid god. His very blood seemed painful as it coursed through him, and each lungful of air felt as if he was breathing in splinters. He sat in silence now, knowing that there would be no bargining with Nurgle's will.

Around him, he could hear the moans of the rest of the herd, going through the same torment he had experienced – they would die perhaps an hour or two behind him, he calculated. He was no longer concerned. If they died or not, it made no difference to him. A sullen despair overcame him. His torment was so great, death would be a release. He snorted a bubble of blood as he realised that he no longer cared for his own life. Let him die, here in this forgotten forest. Let death claim his soul and rot claim his body. He would be happy for it.

Darkness blanketed him. Ahh good – this was easier than he had expected. It seemed he was to be spared seeing his bones snap and muscles wither. His death would be easy, then. In fact, he could feel the pain in his blood subsiding even now as he slipped away. Odd that – he could still feel the earth beneath his fingertips. Perhaps that was just the way your mind worked as you died – did you just focus on the tiniest little thing until you were gone?

His breathing seemed easier too, come to think of it. It must be an illusion. To prove this to himself, he attempted to raise his head. Somehow he managed it. A last burst of energy from a near-corpse, he told himself. But he couldn't help feeling a tinge of... not hope exactly, but …

He realised he could now pull himself to his feet. His vision seemed to have cleared somewhat. But... no. He must still be diseased- he could feel the dull burning of his blood, the prickling of boils bursting from his chest. Yet he was undoubtedly alive. Inside, he _felt_ dead. He could summon no joy at the fact he was still alive. The boils were settling. As puss and dung dripped off him, he glanced down to see that three welts still remained, pulsating below his shoulder. One by one they popped, spewing toxic-looking liquid on the ground. Ba'lan found himself staring at a patch of festering flesh that had perfectly described the Mark of Nurgle on his breast. Directly above his still-beating heart, he realised. Of course. Nurgle was not just the God of destruction, decay and plague. He was also despair. Despair given form. Until Ba'lan had accepted his fate and abandoned all hope, he had been removed from his new lord.

His new lord. He knew without a doubt that that was true. The fact that the mark lay above his heart was a reminder that Nurgle held his life in the balance, that the Lord of Decay could remove his favour and end Ba'lan's life at a whim.

He checked the limits of his body. He felt a strange numbness – not only in his flesh, but also in his soul. It was as if the world was a more lifeless place, pleasure and joy now alien to him. Yet that was not completely so. He saw that when he sniffed the stench that surrounded him, a thrill of enjoyment passed through him. The same when he looked upon the mark on his chest. The numbness was mirrored by the pain that still ran through him, though he barely felt it as pain any more. His skin was jaundiced – a sickly, blotchy yellow so unlike his old tanned hide. But aside from these differences, he realised he was much the same as he had been before. His strength was the same as ever, his mind... the same.

He was Ba'lan, still.

He looked around and saw the herd lolling around, moaning and groaning in various stages of the plague. Without Nurgle's blessing, they would all die. He felt little emotion at that thought. He saw Ghurlag, vomiting violently nearby. It would have been nice to say that the sight of his brother striken by disease prompted some emotional response, but it didn't, really. He knew he could have sat there and watched his brother die, and not felt any great turmoil over it. In fact the sight of the blight striking fellow gors gave him a small thrill of pleasure.

But Nurgle did not wish for this blight to claim him just one servant. In particular, fine specimens such as his brothers would prove worthy instruments of the Plague Lord. Right now, Ba'lan had a duty to ensure that those who could survived Nurgle's touch. He set out to administer his dark advice. He would start with Ghurlag.

--Author's note--

I've noticed that a couple of documents lose some words when i update them - anyone else noticed this? It's kinda hard to spot unless i read the whole story through, but i can't explain it as typing error because the original documents have everything intact.

Also: Review! if you've read the story and liked it or hated it, i want to know. Even if there's just some small thing you want to comment on.

Thanks for reading.


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